


They say it's what you make (I say it's up to fate)

by Jinxgirl



Series: Zombie Quinntana [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-09 17:27:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 17,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16454231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinxgirl/pseuds/Jinxgirl
Summary: Sequel to Where my demon hides. After the zombie apocalypse, Santana and Quinn continue to try to move forward.





	1. Driving

They drove in near silence, barely speaking. The quiet was not bred of anger or any intention to ignore, but rather because of the serious, solemn mood that had come over them both, the moment they made their way to Quinn’s parents’ garage and packed its backseat and trunk full of all the possessions Quinn had deemed possibly needed for their future, wherever that might be. Santana had not argued Quinn moving behind the wheel; with all the bodies in the road, she didn’t want to be the one to have to try to navigate. It was more than enough to keep an eye out for any moving undead that might come across them.

Quinn drove slowly, much more slowly than Santana was comfortable with. She was unable to keep herself from continually looking over her shoulder, almost certain that she would discover that something, formerly a someone, was clinging to the back bumper of the car, pulling its way on top of the car in preparation to break through the windows. She didn’t say anything though, not wanting to break the tentative not quite calm between herself and Quinn, the strange semi understanding that had formed. She and Quinn were together now, a package deal; that was all that was important in her world, but in what way, Santana still was unsure. She knew only that she loved Quinn, that she needed her, and if that meant keeping her mouth shut for the moment when all she wanted was to let her anxieties tumble free, then she would do it. 

Still, she sucked in her breath sharply when Quinn narrowly missed hitting a body stretched across the road, and she bit down on her inner cheeks to keep from snapping at her. She caught Quinn’s eyes flit in her direction, and when Quinn’s hand crept across the dashboard, taking Santana’s hand in hers and squeezing, Santana knew that the other girl, too, was feeling more than she wanted to show. Holding Quinn’s hand, Santana tried to relax back against the seat, to concentrate instead on the steady pulse against the thin skin of Quinn’s wrist as she slowly rubbed her thumb over her pale blue veins. 

Leaving the fragile perceived safety of Quinn’s home and heading out into something totally unknown was terrifying, but remaining alone without her was worse.


	2. Tree

Despite her hypervigilance, Santana almost missed the figure in the tree, swaying slightly in the morning breeze. It wasn’t so much that she didn’t see it, as her mind refused to register its significance. After all, a zombie wouldn’t be hanging from a tree, and there was no reason for a human person to be…no reason that made sense.

And then it hit her, and she gasped aloud so sharply that Quinn’s head swiveled towards her, and she almost jammed on the brakes, scanning their pathway frantically for whatever presumably living creature or potential danger Santana had spotted before she had. 

“What, Santana, what?!”

“There!” Santana stammered, pointing with a shaking hand at the form now twisting around slowly, head bowed forward, feet dangling limply, laces untied. “There’s someone in the fucking tree, did they HANG him?!”

She grabbed at Quinn’s hand, squeezing tightly, and was outraged when the girl pulled it away to the steering wheel and started to inch the car closer. 

“What the hell are you doing, you drive away from shit like that, you don’t keep going forward!”

“You do if you’re not sure if they’re still alive or not,” Quinn maintained, inching the car forward a little more and leaning forward as she squinted her eyes. “No zombie strung him up, Santana. Either a human tried to kill him, or he tried to kill himself… and if it wasn’t long ago, maybe…”

There wasn’t a lot of hope in her voice, but Santana thought she looked like she was almost holding her breath. But it was more than possible that rather than hope, this was Quinn showing fear.

Santana leaned closer to Quinn unconsciously, her shoulder pressing into hers even over the divide of the seats as she swallowed hard. Already she could tell that the person was not alive; it was obvious from the purpling color of his face, the passive movement, driven by wind rather than any sort of impulse or controlled action, of his limbs. But Quinn continued forward in silence, seeming determined to make absolutely sure, until both girls drew in sharp breaths and Santana turned her face away, her stomach flipping over. She felt Quinn’s hand on her shoulder, squeezing tightly enough that Santana flinched, and then she was turning the car around, driving away in silence. When Quinn’s hand touched Santana’s, Santana blindly twined her fingers with it, taking another breath, and still said nothing.

Because how do you verbalize seeing bite and claw marks on both ankles and one foot of the dead human…how do you acknowledge knowing that even after he was dead, they were still trying to feed? Or that maybe, the zombies had come in his dying moments, that even in suicide he couldn’t escape their grasp?


	3. School

The high school was dark, from the outside. Santana had never realized before how bright the building normally was, when she saw it, how there were always lights glowing from the rooms within, or at the very least the streetlights outside of it. It was daylight, so the outside lights were not switched on, and the building seemed eerily still and deserted to her. As Quinn drove up to it, pulling her car around the side, Santana took a breath, noticing that there were no other cars, not one single one, in the parking lot. What if a zombie saw their car and automatically knew that they were inside?

“Don’t worry about it, San,” Quinn said suddenly, making her jump, and Santana’s head swiveled to follow the direction of her gaze. “They can’t think, they can’t plan, they can’t come to conclusions. It’s not like they’re smart enough to recognize my car or remember what they’re used for…the only time they would register it at all is if they saw us while we were still inside it. So let’s avoid that possibility and get inside, fast.”

It was weird to Santana how she and Quinn, who had been so antagonistic to each other, despite their supposed friendship, for much of their time knowing each other, seemed now to have an understanding of each other, of how the other girl thought and felt and operated, without ever having to acknowledge it, without the other having to speak of it at all. Quinn knew now with a glance what Santana was thinking, and Santana had understood, with little explanation on Quinn’s part, just why it was that she wanted to move them to the high school.

Quinn’s explanation had involved practicalities- showers, food, access to possible weapons, such as baseball bats, tools used in woodwork class, and hockey sticks, other equipment generally used for athletics that would be equally good at bashing in zombie skulls. But Santana had known from the intensity of hope in Quinn’s eyes as she spoke that what she was really hoping for was that there would be someone else who had earlier on had the same ideas, someone else stowed away in the school, maybe even an entire group. Other survivors, other living, thinking people that could help them out and support them, make them take a lesser percentage of the population of the world that remained. Maybe even people that they knew.

Santana didn’t voice this aloud, but she was pretty sure that Quinn’s hope for other survivors, camping out all this time in the high school, was probably not very likely. Still, she found herself almost holding her breath, barely daring to hope for the same as she took up the sharpest of the Fabray kitchen knives in the hand not clutching onto Quinn’s, thankful that they had opposite dominant hands so they could both be equally confident wielding their weapons of choice. For the moment, by unspoken agreement, they left all other belongings in the car, intent on first making sure their path inside the school was clear before attempting to load their arms down with other belongings. 

It took nearly an hour of stumbling down the halls, pausing outside each closed doorway and throwing it open with sudden force, barely in control of their racing hearts and heightened breaths, but eventually Santana and Quinn were able to determine with some degree of certainty that there were no zombies within the building, at least, none that were roaming about in the open, prepared to attack. They never let go of each other’s hand, the entire time the searched, and by the time Quinn breathed out a sigh of relief and told Santana that they could now start carrying in their belongings, Santana’s fingers ached from the tension of their grip on Quinn’s, and she was starting to be unable to tell where her own fingers ended and Quinn’s began.

Neither girl was hungry, but it still seemed a good idea to stop first in the cafeteria, to scrounge up whatever edible items they could find. Leaving their belongings in a pile in front of one of the folded up cafeteria tables, Santana and Quinn began to explore, discovering fairly quickly that, cafeteria or not, the amount of immediately edible food available to them was limited. The majority of the food was in the freezer, needing to be cooked or thawed, and neither could be sure of how much longer electricity would maintain. The snack like food items- cookies, vending machine items, and the like- were available, and wouldn’t likely go bad any time soon, but they were hardly sufficient to live off of long term.

“Not that anything ever served up in the cafeteria of any modern high school is,” Santana had muttered skeptically, scrunching up her nose as she surveyed their limited possibilities with distaste. “Figures that out of all the possible places here that are supposed to prevent us from starvation, we end up with the one where you’re just as likely to get food poisoning or turn into a thousand pound obese monstrosity by consuming a single tater tot.”

But she had eaten a bag of pretzels she and managed to jimmy out of the vending machine with complete disinterest to their taste, then drank a carton of chocolate milk Quinn had handed her from the refrigerator.

“These will go first,” Quinn had instructed, pointing to the expiration dates on the carton. “We need to make sure we use all the perishable items first, or we won’t be able to use them at all.”

“What a tragedy that would be, my taste buds would definitely cry with disappointment,” Santana had rolled her eyes. But despite her muttering, she understood, as Quinn did, that this wouldn’t be a very good thing at all, and so she had drank her milk and eaten a small container of tangerines as well, without any further comments.

She noticed that Quinn was very quiet as she sat beside her, shoulder to shoulder, eating her own allotted portions, and Santana tried not to look at her face too closely, knowing that it would hurt her heart to see. She knew, again without Quinn having to say so, how disappointed the other girl was, how much it must have hurt to realize that not only were there no zombies in the school, there were also no people.

So she stayed silent as they finished eating, and when Quinn let her carton of milk fall to her side, not bothering, as she usually would, on picking it up to throw away, Santana reached over for her hand, taking it into her lap and squeezing hard. She let her head fall to Quinn’s shoulder, curling against her not for her own comfort, but in a silent effort to give some to Quinn. It took almost a full minute, but eventually Quinn squeezed back, her head coming to rest on top of Santana’s, and Santana knew that it was her way of acknowledging her effort, if not to pretend she was okay.


	4. showers

Santana never would have thought it possible to actually enjoy the school showers. The water never seemed to grow warmer than tepid, the pressure was weak, and always before she had had to worry about keeping her eyes entirely averted from other girls, just in case they happened to notice her gaze lingering just a tad longer than was able to be easily explained. She had tried to divert this as a possibility by instead going out of her way to accuse other girls of looking at her for too long, or mocking their bodies, just to make everyone positive that she would never look at them out of anything but disgust. School showers were a place where she had to be on guard at all times, a place to get in and get out of as fast as humanly possible with her reputation and dignity still intact.

But it had been a long, tiring day, physically, mentally, and emotionally, and when Quinn suggested they go together to the girl’s locker room and shower, Santana was more than willing to agree. She followed her, tightly grasping her hand and frequently looking around to make sure that no one was following as they made their way through halls that were very familiar, yet so eerily still and silent that Santana wanted to flinch at every small noise she heard. As they entered the locker room, flipping on the lights, and made their way to the showers, they had to search to scrounge up leftover shampoo, soap, washcloths, and towels, because although Quinn had thought to bring all of these things, they hadn’t yet bothered to move them out of the back of her mother’s car.

Normally Santana would have balked at even the thought of washing her hair with anything other than her very expensive, specialized brand of shampoo, let alone scrubbing her skin with anything other than her own chosen brand of soap. Her skin was sensitive and grew rough easily, and her hair was difficult to manage even in the best of times. But why did it matter what she looked like or felt like anymore, with only Quinn around to see? Half the time they weren’t taking showers in the first place; it didn’t seem like a big enough deal to bother, if they weren’t doing anything to get dirty and no one but each other would know or care if they were a little grungy or smelly. 

Santana had been wearing the same shirt and jeans for two days now. In the world before, this would have been utterly unacceptable; now, it was standard course of action. She didn’t have access to her own clothing, and even if she had, no one but Quinn would know she was reusing. Nevertheless, despite her relaxed standards of hygiene, Quinn’s suggestion had made her realize that she did indeed feel a little grungy as she ran a hand through her oily hair, making a face at the snags and snarls her fingers encountered. 

Her breath caught as she watched Quinn undress, with none of the self-consciousness she had grown to associate with Quinn over the years. Despite the rougher standard of living they were growing used to, and the fact that Quinn too had been wearing the same clothing for a few days, Quinn’s skin remained smooth, pale, and enticing, almost begging Santana to touch. When she tore her eyes away, still somewhat uncertain as to just when and how it was that the two of them could touch or look, Quinn stepped closer, the ghost of a smile curving her lips as she reached for Santana’s hand. 

“San? Do you…want me to wash your hair?”

There was uncertainty in her voice, a slight tension in her brow as she waited for Santana’s response, as though a part of her still feared that her answer would be no, and this was undoubtedly true. There had been little discussion between them, both of them seeming to find it easier to express themselves with touch or looks alone, but although this seemed to do a decent job of conveying messages, there was still much room left for guessing and uncertainty. 

Santana nodded, squeezing Quinn’s hand, and then dropped it, finishing removing her own clothing- and well aware of Quinn’s eyes on her, the entire time. It still felt strange, standing alone in the nearly silent room that she had never before been in without dozens of other girls close by, but as they stepped forward together, starting the shower, and Santana took a breath, turning her back to Quinn for her to begin her assistance, she barely noticed the silence anymore.

Quinn’s fingers were gentle but stronger than Santana would have expected as they worked her hair into a lather, her nails lightly scraping at her scalp. Santana closed her eyes, her head tilted back, and let herself slowly relax, enjoying how carefully Quinn combed her fingers through the length of her locks, over and over, as though determined to leave not one bit of shampoo, not one single tangle. When Quinn’s hands brushed over the tops of her shoulders, then slowly, tentatively down her back, Santana tensed, turning her head, and when she met her gaze and saw how quickly Quinn was drawing in her breaths, there was no option but to turn to her, her arms coming to wrap around Quinn as she drew her in close to her, her lips coming to meet hers. 

They probably got much dirtier, that night, before they could finish getting clean, but it seemed a very even trade off to them both.


	5. Choir room

Santana didn’t want to enter the choir room.

Quinn had mentioned that they should use the wrestling mats in the gym to spread out on the floor and sleep on. Under any normal circumstances, this would have been an absolutely disgusting idea to Santana. To sleep on a mat that huge, sweaty boys had been practically humping each other on would undoubtedly increase the oiliness of her face and definitely her hair too, and it wasn’t like she had access to decent products to battle this. She would probably get some kind of disgusting boy sweat disease. But although this briefly flitted through her mind, she couldn’t bring herself to actually care, so she nodded, helping Quinn tug them out of the storage area in the boy’s locker room and flop out in the middle of the gym floor. 

She was sort of okay with it, until Quinn mentioned blankets. Neither of them could think of where there might be some stored within the school, and with everything Quinn had thought to pack, blankets had not been among her chosen materials. Then Quinn had remembered that there had been a stash in Mr. Shue’s closet, sometimes used as props, and immediately the alarm bells had gone off in Santana’s head.

She did not want to set foot in that room again. No fucking way. Not because she thought there might be bodies there, or anything dangerous, but because she could not emotionally handle the memories that she knew would be sparked by stepping foot inside. How could she step inside that room, knowing that all the kids she had spent so much time with, mocking and fighting with, singing with and even learning to make a family of sorts, despite their oddities and flaws, would never be inside it with her again? How could she go in that room, picturing their faces so clearly, hearing their voices so audibly in her mind, and be able to remain standing?

She wanted to tell this to Quinn, but she couldn’t seem to put it in words, and the blonde was determined. She didn’t wait for Santana to agree. She just started forward, a determined lift to her chin, and it was up to Santana to follow on her heels if she didn’t want to be left behind.

It was as difficult as she thought it would be when she entered the room. The air seemed different in there, somehow, thicker, more difficult to draw breath, and immediately Santana’s throat choked, the faces and memories she knew would come to her flooding her mind. She held her elbows close against her sides, taking deep breaths to try to get through, and let Quinn go ahead to do what she wanted. 

But it was not Santana, but Quinn, who truly broke. The girl’s footsteps forward, fast at first, became slower and heavier until they stopped, directly in the middle of the room. Santana could hear her breathing from the doorway, growing faster and faster until a sob broke forth. And then Quinn’s shoulders were slumping forward, her hands flying up to cover her hands, and she was shaking, sobbing aloud, shaking her head through fingers held tightly over her face as her knees threatened to give way. 

They didn’t get those blankets. It was all they could do for Santana to circle Quinn’s shoulders with her arm and guide her out of the room, to collapse with her into the hallway just outside it, and hold her until both had stopped shaking enough to stand again.


	6. Night

They didn’t sleep, that first night. After the first hour or so, neither of them even tried. They lay together on a single wrestling mat, at first shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, and after the first restless twenty minutes, they shifted into their more usual spooning position, Santana’s back to Quinn’s chest, Quinn’s arm around her waist, their hands entwined. Santana could feel Quinn’s breath stirring her hair, and Quinn could smell cheap soap in Santana’s hair as they held onto each other, waiting for the night to pass.

It wasn’t’ just that they couldn’t get comfortable, although this was true. It was that every small noise seemed intensely dangerous to the point that they both flinched, sitting up or lifting their heads, and even when it was silent, their own breathing seemed so loud it echoed through the room, keeping time with their quickened heartbeats. It was that no matter how many weapons they surrounded themselves with and how many doors they locked, they could never truly feel safe again.

They didn’t kiss or get intimate; neither even had the thought come to mind. They just held each other, and somewhere near three am, Santana began to whisper aloud the thoughts that were plaguing her mind.

“Quinn…how long are we going to stay here?”

Quinn sighed, stirring Santana’s hair before she gave her response softly.

“I don’t know, San. As long as we need to, or until we can think of somewhere better to go or something better to do.”

Santana accepted this, giving a sigh of her own before speaking again.

“Quinn, I was thinking…what if we get sick?”

“Then we’ll find some medicine in the school, or in a pharmacy, we’ll read the labels and figure out what we need,” Quinn told her, her voice calm. “I doubt we’re going to come down with something we can’t work through.”

“But we don’t know what the long term effects of being exposed to all of this is,” Santana argued, shaking her head against Quinn’s chest. “We don’t have any doctors that we know of. What if we get hurt really badly and we need stitches or a cast or surgery?”

“Then we’ll do the best we can with what we have and what we can figure out,” Quinn’s voice was a little more testy as she responded then, even though she squeezed Santana’s hand. “Santana, we don’t have any control over what ifs, so why don’t we just stay right here in the present moment and worry about what we can actually do and what we actually need to do right this second, which right now, is sleep.”

Santana was too tense to get very upset with her answer. She didn’t close her eyes, trying to scoot back even more closely into Quinn’s chest, and took deep breaths, trying to distract herself enough to relax. She thought that Quinn had fallen asleep, but nearly twenty minutes later, she heard her whisper in her ear.

“I don’t know, Santana. I don’t know what we’ll do. I really don’t know.”

Santana could hear the trace of fear in her voice, in the way it just barely cracked with emotion. She didn’t respond; she just squeezed her hand harder, lifting Quinn’s fingers to her lips, and held onto her arm, waiting for morning to come.


	7. Remembering

It took them a full day before they could pass the choir room again, and it was another day before they could step inside. Afterward, Santana could not remember whose idea it was to face up to it; she thought it was Quinn’s, but Quinn seemed to think it was hers. Whatever the case, they found themselves stepping inside, hands squeezed tightly together, shoulders pressed together as they almost held their breath, tensing up against an inevitable assault of memory and emotion.

It crossed Santana’s mind that if they were really going to get cheesy Lifetime movie about it, there should be lit candles in a circle, or pictures of every person that had ever joined the Glee club, placed in their individual seats. But they had nothing but the empty chairs before them, and so Quinn and Santana sat on the floor, still tightly holding hands, and faced the row of chairs, silently remembering until Quinn finally spoke.

“Kurt would have been horrified by the limited clothing and accessory options we have available to us now,” she said, her voice hoarser than usual, but there was something of a laugh to its tone. 

Santana smiled faintly, nodding agreement as she added her own response. “And Blaine…if he only had the school soap to work with, none of his hair gel, I think it would traumatize him more than everything else put together.”

Quinn gave a faint chuckle, her thumb absently running over the back of Santana’s hand. “Sam would have already had some crazy theory in place about exactly how this happened and how we have to aim ten thousand batteries towards the sun to stop it, or something like that. And Joe would tell us that we just need to all ban together and pray, and Kitty would tell us it was the apocalypse and we’re all being punished for our sins.” She paused, then turned her eyes to Santana, asking seriously, “You don’t think she’s right, do you?”

Santana shook her head immediately, even as faint doubts twisted through her thoughts. “No. We both know she’s insane. Don’t even worry about it.” She paused, wrinkling up her nose as she forced herself to return to more mocking, light thoughts. “Tina would drive me crazy bawling and hyperventilating this whole time. Probably start stuttering again, this time for real. And Rory would stand around blinking and asking if it’s an American practice to dig up our dead ancestors and kill them all over again and then I would have to punch him in the throat.”

Quinn snorted, her face breaking into a slightly bigger smile at this, and she squeezed Santana’s hand again, seemingly grateful for the laugh. Clearing her throat, she directed her eyes back to the row of seats. “You know Sue would already have a combat plan in action. For all I know, she’s actually the cause of this entire zombie thing in the first place, and it’s her grand plan to take over the world. I can completely see her having her own zombie fight crew.”

“Shit, you think so?” Santana asked, genuinely startled and half willing to believe it. “That would actually make a lot of sense, the clever bitch.”

“Well we can probably be fairly sure of one thing,” Quinn shrugged, sighing. “Out of everyone, it’s pretty much a guarantee that Sue survived, somewhere out there. It would take something nastier than a zombie to bring her down.”

They turned their eyes back in silence to the empty seats, thinking of all the others who probably hadn’t. Finally Santana spoke again, trying to inject optimism she didn’t really feel into her voice.

“Puck would fight. You know how he is, bragging about his guns. He’s probably stolen someone’s car and is mowing them all down in the streets somewhere.”

“Coach Beiste is tough,” Quinn agreed with a nod. “She’s probably slinging them all down without even needing a weapon.”

“And Mike is stronger than he looks, and he’s fast on his feet,” Santana added. “Matt, too. Some of them are out there, Quinn. They have to be.”

But they knew, without having to say it, how many others that left that probably weren’t. Finn, who was so uncoordinated, who almost certainly would have tripped over his feet while running away or knocked his head into something while trying to fight back. Rachel, who was so tiny and whose most deadly quality was her ability to, in Santana’s opinion, bore someone to death with her motormouth or pierce their eardrums with her soprano voice, and since zombies were already not alive, it wasn’t exactly a weapon at her disposal. Mercedes, who was not in great physical shape and had gotten winded rehearsing, let alone running or fighting for her life from zombies. Sugar, who seemed not quite mentally in tune with even an average day in the world, let alone a surreal one, and who was probably worse than Rachel when it came to a physical fight. Emma Pillsbury, who couldn’t even handle a sneeze, let alone zombie blood and guts. Mr. Shue, who teared up at a sappy song…could he really go around stabbing and beheading zombies, even of people who he used to know?

Kurt, Blaine, Rory, Joe…none of them, could they picture surviving. None of them could either girl see as anything but another victim, another body….or another zombie.

And Brittany. Neither spoke her name, but both could feel the word on the tip of their tongues, and both could not help but drift their eyes in the direction of her accustomed seat, directly beside Santana’s. Santana could almost feel her hands twirling her ponytail, guiding her hand into her pocket, linking her pinkie with hers or pulling Santana’s head to rest against her shoulder, and she inhaled sharply, feeling her loss with new intensity as tears came to her eyes.

Quinn didn’t speak to her; she too was silent, biting the inside of her cheeks as she remembered Brittany dancing with such open joy in every gesture, seeming to be lit from within with happiness and life. Other faces flitted through her mind, of each of the Glee club’s members, all of them so different, few of them ones she would ever choose on her own to know, and yet, they had become, for such a brief period, her family, people who cared for her long before she could admit she cared for them. She remembered them, she felt their loss, and slowly, she began the process of accepting. Wrapping her arms around Santana, she pulled her head to her shoulder, finding her forehead with her lips, and they sat in silent memory, until the day began to darken through the slits of the window blinds, and night began to close in.


	8. on the roof

“I still think that this is completely insane, and I can’t believe that it was you, the girl too scared to go to the bathroom alone, that wanted to do this.”

Quinn arched an eyebrow at Santana, her tone more playful than truly critical, as Santana rolled her eyes at her, not seeming to truly take offense. 

“I’m not scared, I’m reasonably cautious. I don’t notice you galloping around the place by yourself whistling show tunes.”

“Because you would scream bloody murder if I ever got more than three steps from your side,” Quinn pointed out, but Santana ignored this, addressing her previous statement.

“We have to do something, Quinn. We’ve been cooping ourselves up forever, first in your house, then in the damn school I never wanted to go back to, ever, even before this. It’s like we’re in a slowly suffocating hell here, and I just want to be able to actually breathe new air.”

“You said you wanted to see if there were zombies or living people around at a higher altitude and less risk than if you looked out the windows or stepped out into the open in the middle of the night to do it,” Quinn reminded her, and Santana shrugged her shoulders, agreeing nonchalantly. 

“That too. But the air, that was definitely top of my priorities.”

“I can’t believe you don’t worry they’ll see or hear us up here,” Quinn remarked, narrowing her eyes as they strained to see at as great a distance as possible- something not as easy as it could be for both, as neither were wearing glasses or contact lenses. “Usually you hiss at me if I don’t speak in a whisper past seven pm.”

“We’re practically whispering now, and they don’t exactly walk around with their necks craned up, they have to stare at their feet to keep from tripping over their own rotting parts,” Santana said almost carelessly. “Come on, Quinn, lighten up, live a little.”

The truth was that for the first time since she could remember, Santana felt almost free, nearly giddy with the relative release of simply being able to stand out in the open, almost, feeling for the first time in what seemed forever the faint coolness of breeze on her skin, ruffling her hair and chilling her flesh. She didn’t mind her slight goosebumps or even her messy hair. She wanted instead to turn cartwheels, to spin in circles and delight in the brief lift of anxiety and fear she had been granted. Only the fact that she was standing on the rooftop of the school, and despite her shrugging off Quinn’s concerns, it was more than possible that she would in fact attract attention by taking these actions, kept her from indulging in her urges.

Quinn shook her head, but a slight smile curved her lips. “It’s been a long time since you’ve been such a goofy dork.” She paused, then said softly, “It’s kind of nice to see.”

Santana met her eyes, her own smile widening, and she held out a hand, giving a mock bow before beckoning for Quinn to come to her. “Come, milady, this goofy dork is inviting you to dance.”

When Quinn arched an eyebrow again, one hand loosely held to her hip, Santana laughed, beckoning with even more flourish.

“Oh, my fair lady, the moon does shine so bright, and the stars twinkle so merrily in the night, and your hair is so blonde and light, that I simply cannot resist taking you in my arms so tight.”

Quinn burst out laughing then, quickly stifling it behind her hand as they both glanced quickly around, making sure that nothing had heard them. When they were assured that the night was still silent below them, they relaxed. Still smiling at her, Santana took a step forward, taking her hand into hers.

“Seriously…come dance with me. We’ll worry about all the other shit tomorrow. Just dance with me now.”

And Quinn did. Her hand in Santana’s, her arm secure around her waist, forehead pressed to hers, she danced, soaking up the deceptive tranquility of the night, the other girl’s body against hers, and just for the moment, neither did worry.


	9. Lights out

It happened on the fourth night. Santana and Quinn had become accustomed to sleeping with all the lights on in the locker room, just as they had in Quinn’s home. They were lying close, drifting into deeper sleep, when the room went dark.

Although they had been sleeping, unconsciously they recognized even through closed eyelids that the light was gone, and both stirred almost at once, squinting and blinking in an effort to make sense of their sudden difficulty seeing their surroundings. Santana gasped, one arm immediately reaching to grasp for Quinn, and her overly long nails dug into her skin even as Quinn hissed at her, accusing.

“What did you do, did you turn off the lights?!”

“Of course not, I was sleeping!” Santana hissed back, almost as indignant in tone as she was scared. “Did the electricity run out? Is it raining, maybe it’s a power outage.”

“I don’t know,” Quinn whispered back, and Santana realized that she could hear how quickly she was breathing. It was a mark of her fear that she didn’t even protest Santana’s grasp of her arm. “I don’t know, but I can’t see. We don’t have any flashlights…damn it…”

She was right about that. No flashlights, no candles, and cell phones had seized to work long ago. What exactly were they supposed to use to light their way, and even if they did have something, somewhere in the building, how would they locate it in the dark?

“Maybe it’s just this room,” Quinn said hopefully, even as she knew the low chance of this being true. “Maybe we can leave out of here and just move to a room with light…do you have the car keys?” 

Santana nodded, patting her pants pocket. She and Quinn kept it with them at all times, just in case they had a sudden need to flee the building. Loosening her grip on Quinn’s hand, she slowly got to her feet, walking with slow, faltering steps towards the general direction of the locker room door.

It was still shut, and neither had heard the door open or close; in fact, there was still the objects piled in front of it that they had placed before going to sleep. That was a relief to Santana, who had been privately afraid that someone, or something, had in fact snuck into the room and turned off the lights. She let out a breath she hadn’t known she had been holding, letting go of Quinn’s hand to help her move the objects aside, and grasped it again before opening the door. She and Quinn both inhaled in disappointment when they saw that the gym was dark as well. Slowly moving forward, they exited the gym doors into the hallway outside it, and saw that all those halls were dark as well. It took them a moment to remember that this was because they had deliberately kept all other lights off in the dark, but when Quinn and Santana felt along the wall, searching for a switch, and flicked it, nothing happened.

“There are no more lights….and that probably means there’s no more water,” Quinn said slowly, realizing. “No more freezer or refrigeration. Santana, we can’t stay here. We haven’t saved a supply of water, and all the food is going to go bad except what’s still left in the vending machine.”

Santana’s grip on her hand grew tighter and tighter, and she pressed her lips into a thin line as she nodded, understanding but not happy about the situation. Slowly, carefully they made their way back to the locker room, beginning to gather up what supplies they could locate in the dark, and crawled back to the mat, arms tightly around each other as they waited for morning to come. As soon as daylight began, they would have to make their way out of the school with what supplies they could carry in one trip, because they dared not risk more in the light of day. They would have to pray not to be seen by the zombies, and that if they were, they would be able to get into the car and start it up without any major problems. They would have to find a new location, one that could fit their needs, and more than likely, that would mean leaving the town entirely.

But for now, they waited, barely speaking of what was needed as they held onto each other. Right now, that was what they needed more.


	10. Mini reunion

They didn’t stay in Lima. It seemed pointless to, with the water and electricity gone, and since the girls had not recently seen a living soul. Santana drove this time, hands gripped tightly around the steering wheel, eyes glued to the road, never swerving away from the path directly in front of her. She didn’t want to see anything she didn’t absolutely have to, so she let Quinn be her lookout, there to alert her to any oncoming danger that she couldn’t see for herself.

They didn’t speak very often. Both girls were bone tired, having barely slept the night before, and Santana found her head starting to dip forward several times, her eyes growing heavy before Quinn would elbow her, snapping her back to alertness. On only a few occasions did Quinn point out a zombie, always safely in the distance enough that Santana could merely accelerate to get out of its path, and on no occasion did she point out a living being. 

It wasn’t even a discussion whether they would stay in Lima. There was nothing there left for them but the memories of horrors they wanted only to leave behind. Instead they crossed into the next adjoining town, stopping at the abandoned grocery store and stocking up on the water, paper towels, toilet paper, and various toiletry and food items that Quinn had already determined they needed, and then kept going, searching for signs of life, or some other sign that would tell them it was time to settle. 

They were maybe a twenty minute drive away when they came upon him. The turned back of what looked like a male figure, a rifle slung over his shoulder along with a weathered backpack, attempting to open the front door of what appeared to be an empty home. Santana, with her extreme focus on the road ahead, was unaware of this until Quinn gasped aloud, bolting forward in her seat and craning her neck in unabashed excitement.

“Santana! Santana, look, there’s someone there- someone who looks like a real person!”

Santana’s head swiveled, and the car almost swerved into a ditch as she pointed the direction of Quinn’s slightly shaking finger. To her own astonishment, she saw that it was true. The figure in the distance was certainly moving, and not with the uncoordinated jerkiness that they had become accustomed to seeing in the zombies. From what she could tell, the young man was tall, muscled, and broad shouldered, and she couldn’t see any obvious tears or rips in his clothes or any missing body parts. Of course, she couldn’t be certain, since she couldn’t see his face either, but there was at least a possibility that for the first time in weeks, they had come across another living soul, and Santana couldn’t contain her excitement.

“Oh fuck, no way,” she breathed, easing the car back fully onto the road, and Quinn grabbed hold of her arm, squeezing it hard with her own adrenalized excitement.

“Pull into the driveway! Hurry up, but don’t scare him off, don’t make him think we’re going to run him down!”

“Why the hell would be run him down, when’s the last time you saw a zombie that could drive a car?” Santana retorted, but she did what Quinn said nevertheless, slowing down as she began to make their way up the driveway.

As she drew closer, her stomach was flipping with nervous anticipation, and she could barely keep herself from grimacing. What if after all this excitement, it turned out that it was a zombie after all- or worse, a living person so crazy that they would have to flee, leaving him behind? What if he tried to hurt him? If worse came to worse, could Santana hurt him back- the only living person she and Quinn had come across?

Of course she could, and she knew Quinn could do. They would both do what they had to do, just as they had been all along. But god, would it suck with the irony.

But as it turned out, this wasn’t something that she had to worry about, because as she and Quinn drove towards him, the young man turned around quickly, hearing their approach. Even as he lifted a hand to the rifle defensively, shading his eyes and squinting with his other, both girls could immediately see that he was not only human, he was someone they recognized, someone they knew very well. Santana felt her face split into a grin so wide it actually hurt her cheeks, and beside her, Quinn erupted, letting out a shriek of joy holding a shrillness in tone that Santana had never heard the likes of from her in all the time she had known her.

“PUCK! Oh my god, Santana, it’s PUCK!!!”

And so it was. Santana had barely managed to put the car in park before Quinn was nearly falling out its passenger door, losing her usual grace in movements in her haste to reach him. Santana scrambled out after her, having absolutely no desire to hide her eagerness behind her usual mask of snark. Noah Puckerman had never been someone that she would openly show much affection towards; it wasn’t their relationship with each other, never had been and seemingly never would be, even when they were so-called dating. But as she ran towards him then, her heart full of such happiness to see his familiar dopey face, she had absolutely no concerns about previous patterns of interaction between them or about trying to look any certain way. She was thrilled to see him, and she didn’t give a damn how much he knew it. In fact, she wanted him to.

Puck was running to meet them too, having dumped both his rifle and his backpack to the ground with little concern about whether the abrupt motion would cause them damage. He had barely reached Quinn’s side before he grabbed her up by her waist, swinging her straight off her feet in an exhilarated circle as he laughed hoarsely, shouting out her name almost as loudly as Quinn had called his. Pulling her to his chest, he held her to him, repeating, “Quinn, Quinn….oh fuck, fuck, QUINN,” before he pulled back, just enough to cup her face in his hands and kiss her forehead, both cheeks, and then her mouth with obvious fervor. Even from a distance Santana could see that he was sniffling, his back shaking with held back tears, and she saw that he was unshaven, body his face and body leaner than usual, with deep hollows beneath his eyes. And Quinn….Quinn was outright sobbing, her arms wound tight around his neck, not even trying to contain herself.

For a few moments Santana’s steps slowed, and she eyed them uncertainly, a twisting of jealousy sharpening itself in her gut. But she had barely registered this before Puck was looking up from Quinn, gently peeling her off him as he came forward the rest of the way to meet Santana, drawing her in to him as he had Quinn in the most fierce hug she had ever been given in her life. The moment her body made contact with his, her smaller frame almost swallowed up in his embrace, Santana felt something within her break, and she too began to weep with an intensity she was almost stunned by. And then the three of them were clutching at each other, two sets of arms wrapped around her, her own arms holding onto them both, holding them up almost as much as she herself was being held up. All three were crying heavily, barely able to gasp out each other’s names, and Santana could hardly breathe, but she was vaguely aware of lips on her hair, then against her own, firmer and dryer than Quinn’s. 

It was a good five minutes or so before they could pull themselves together enough to break apart, knowing that all the noise would undoubtedly attract any undead that might be within the area. They used the claw part of a hammer Puck had brought along to pry open a window, not wanting to break it or break down the door and make it easier for zombies to get inside, and Puck had insisted on crawling through and checking the place out first before pronouncing it safe for the girls. As he helped them both climb in after him, he couldn’t seem to resist pulling them both close to him again in another tight hug, and neither protested.

This house too had no water, no electricity, but they had enough bottled water and gallons of water that they could have sponge baths of sorts and brush their teeth, and they had enough flashlights, batteries, candles, and matches to get by, at least for a little while. But moreover, they had one more person to join their duo, a person they both loved, and for now, that was more than enough to be satisfied with.


	11. Catching up

They sat together on the couch in the living room, Puck’s arms wrapped around both girls’ shoulders, as they shared their stories. It seemed to Santana that Puck was reluctant to stop touching them in some way, as though if he let go of them for more than a few moments, they might drift out of his reach forever, or fade away and never return. She guessed she couldn’t blame him for that; she couldn’t bear to be alone or apart from Quinn for a few seconds, let alone for whatever length of time that Puck had been on his own entirely. She didn’t really mind that he wanted to keep contact with them both, but she did mind that his hand seemed to be absently running over Quinn’s arm, and that Quinn not only didn’t stop him, but kept herself pressed close to his side.

She found that she had been tuning out what he was saying and tried harder to pay attention, although she rather suspected that she didn’t really want to know what it was he had to share.

“It was my little sister that brought it home,” Puck was saying, his voice a little deeper than usually as he swallowed thickly. “She’d been out with one of her friends, or something, and she came home and she was, you know, all nasty, dripping out her mouth and everything. She got our ma, and I had to hold them off, try to get out the friggin’ house, get to the car and everything. I haven’t seen Jake, he wasn’t home so I don’t know where he is or if he’s all right or not. The car was missing, so maybe…I don’t know. I looked for Finn and Kurt, and…”

He swallowed again, shaking his head, and Santana saw Quinn suck in her breath, her nails digging into his arm. “Wasn’t good. Ain’t gonna tell you anything more than that…just…shit, wasn’t good.”

“So…you didn’t find anyone else? No one?” Santana asked, dreading the answer even before she heard his reply. “Did you look?”

“Yeah, of course I looked,” Puck said, sounding indignant as he shot her an annoyed look. “Damn, you think I’d just book it out of town or board myself up like a hermit instead of look for people to hook up with?”

Both girls shot each other a look across him, not responding to that, seeing as it was exactly what they had done. Puck didn’t seem to notice as he continued to explain.

“Yeah, I looked. Rachel’s house, empty, and knowing her and her dads, you know…thinking it’s not good. I looked in Brittany’s, San, and yours-“

“I know,” Santana cut him off, her voice far sharper than she had anticipated. “I know, so just…I know.”

Puck gave her a brief frown, running a hand over her arm that she guessed was supposed to be soothing but just sent a shudder down her spine. After a pause, he went on.

“Didn’t bother with Q’s, I called and no one answered, so…kinda figured there was no point.”

“The phones were wanky,” Santana explained, shrugging. “Actually, we were there pretty much the whole first week.”

Puck’s eyebrows shot up, and he gave a chuckle without any real humor to it, shaking his head and running his hand over his scalp. 

“Friggin’ figures. Been alone since day three of this shit, and you two were in the one damn house I didn’t try.”

“Who were you with before?” Quinn asked, the question that Santana had been curious about as well. “You were alone after your own house, so….who did you…”

She trailed off, unsure, like Santana, if she wanted to hear, when it was pretty clear that if Puck had been alone after a few days, there was a pretty dark reason as to why. Puck was slow to respond, shrugging both shoulders and avoiding their eyes when he did.

“Hooked up with Azimio and Karofsky the second day. Dudes could fight, but they run slow as shit.”

He didn’t need to say any more than that for it to be clear. The three of them were silent, processing this for a few moments, before Quinn spoke up.

“So it’s just been you. It’s just been Santana and me from the start. Our mothers, her father, and…and Brittany…”

“Gone,” Santana finished for her abruptly, unable to stand hearing the word said aloud in the hushed tone that Quinn was using. “They’re gone. Can we get off the tragedy train now and attempt not to sink into a threeway depressive coma?”

She stood up, stretching her arms over her head and popping her back as though she were simply restless from sitting too long, but the truth was that she couldn’t stand for one more moment to have Puck touching her, to be facing Quinn to see the soft pity in her eyes. She didn’t turn around until the other two were deep into an entirely new and neutral conversation, and only then could she rejoin them without the threat of bursting into tears.


	12. Sleeping arrangements

Sleeping arrangements at night weren’t even a discussion; they were sticking together, all three of them, not even allowing for a chance of separation, or one needing help while the others were not right beside them. 

It was a good thing that the home they had taken over had a king sized bed in the master bedroom. There was plenty of room for all three of them, but Puck decided, without leaving much room for choice or input from the other two, that it would be best to sleep in shifts, with one person staying awake and keeping watch over the other two as they slept. That way, he declared, if anyone or anything did attempt to break in, someone would be alert and ready to strike back. Nothing could catch them off guard.

Santana had protested this somewhat, loathe to give up her own sleep, but Puck had not given her room to argue, having a counter statement for everything she tried to throw out to him as a reason for needed rest. To her own fury, Quinn backed him up, and didn’t budge at the heated looks she threw her way. And so the two girls settled into the bed together, with Puck sitting at its foot, taking up first watch with his gazed directed towards the open door, but although Santana had fought for her right to longer and uninterrupted sleep, now, ironically, she couldn’t seem to find rest at all.

She wiggled and squirmed, adjusting her covers and half yanking them off Quinn in the process until the blonde snapped at her sleepily, demanding that she stay still. But the problem was that they had developed a pattern, the two of them, in the past few weeks, a routine that was comforting and soothing to Santana and had become almost necessary for any sort of relaxation at all. She couldn’t settle her thoughts, couldn’t relax her body to sleep, not unless she had Quinn’s arms wrapped around her, her breath stirring the hairs at her neck, her breasts pressing gently into her back so she could feel the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.

But she couldn’t say that to Quinn in the most private of moments, let alone with Puck present, and Quinn was not reaching out for her to offer. So she twisted and squirmed and when she settled into a fitful sleep at last, she was acutely aware that the body that replaced Quinn’s beside her was too large, too dissimilar to her own, and snoring with an obnoxiousness that left her more irritable than ever. 

She loved Puck; she wasn’t sorry he was there. But god was he fucking with her sleep.


	13. Reconstructing relationships

In many ways, Santana’s and Quinn’s days worked better with Puck. 

It was easier to feel safe, when there was an extra set of eyes to keep watch, an extra and considerably larger set of muscles to fight, if needed, or lift and carry anything that they might need. There was another brain to bounce ideas off of, however Santana might joke that he didn’t count as one, and another set of ears to listen for any indications of approaching danger. Santana and Quinn could even occasionally have moments of privacy, if they were so inclined, as long as the other two people were together outside the door or area where the third was alone. All in all, having Puck along was much better for their chances of survival, and probably for their sanity as well.

And yet still Santana couldn’t quite fully rejoice in his addition to her and Quinn’s partnership of sorts. She was loathe to admit it, even to herself, but more and more frequently when she looked at Puck, especially Puck with Quinn, she felt her heart wrench with slow burning jealousy. She hated to see Quinn touch him, even casually, and hated still more when Puck touched her and she didn’t pull away. She hated to see how he could make Quinn laugh, when she so rarely had been able to, before he joined them, and she hated to see how Quinn’s demeanor seemed to much more brighter, so much more energetic, and so much less worn and despairing than it had before. 

And yet how could she ever say any of that aloud, or even admit it to herself? What kind of horrible bitch would that make her, to regret for any reason that Quinn was looking happier, more alive? How could she feel negatively about one of her closest friends being alive, about having that much more chance of their survival?

But she did, and Santana couldn’t deny it to herself, as much as she wanted to. Having Puck there made her feel less wanted and needed by Quinn, and certainly less present in her thoughts. Having Puck there meant that all the little touches Santana had grown accustomed to, and certainly all the big touches as well, were almost nonexistent, and she could not help but despise their loss.

It was Puck’s fault that Quinn wasn’t holding her hand anymore when they entered a new place, when they drove, that the two of them no longer sat side by side in the car. It was Puck’s fault that they no longer showered together or slept naked and overlapped at night, that they no longer curled close to each other and stroked each other’s hair or kissed casually. It was Puck’s fault that Quinn looked at her sometimes with a faint flush, and then looked away, as though she had considered one or all of these actions, and then thought better of it, stopping it before it started.

It was Puck’s damn fault, and the worst thing about it was that he didn’t have a clue that he had changed anything at all. 

With an intensity she didn’t want to put into words, Santana hated her own understanding that one day, Puck might push for more from Quinn. That one day, he might kiss her, or touch her in a way that could not be shrugged off as the caring of an old friend, and that on that day, she might let him…she might like it. She might even prefer it. After all, he was the boy she had lost her virginity to, although that was true of Santana as well. He was the father of her lost child, and that sentiment, more than anything else, was a binding tie that Santana could never compete with.

She had heard them, one night, when Quinn was supposed to be keeping watch, and Santana was supposed to be sleeping in their newest scouted home with Puck, in the master bedroom. She had stirred in her sleep, hearing hushed voices, and become aware that neither Puck nor Quinn were lying beside her. Barely squinting open her eyes, Santana had followed the direction of the voices with her head, just barely lifting it to see the outline of Puck and Quinn, sitting in the floor of the room’s doorway. She couldn’t make out all of what they were saying, only that Quinn was weeping softly, and the low murmur of Puck’s effort to soothe. It was when she heard the word “Beth,” barely audible in Quinn’s sob, that she understood, and she shut her eyes tight, not wanting to see Puck hold her, not wanting to know if he was kissing her hair, her forehead, or more. 

That had been two nights ago, and they were talking of moving on, going to a new town, traveling forth until they could find somewhere, something that would be a change from the endless death and emptiness of each they had encountered up to now. Santana had noticed nothing change visibly between Puck and Quinn since that night, and yet she was afraid…what might happen, in her own fitful hours of sleep, in the time she gave herself a sponge bath alone or dumped a gallon of water to flush the toilet?

It was Quinn’s turn to keep watch, but Santana could not sleep, didn’t want to sleep. She could hear Puck snoring faintly beside her in the bed, and this only agitated her nerves until she found herself sitting up abruptly, moving to stand beside Quinn where she leaned against the doorway of the bedroom’s entrance. Quinn turned her head, silently acknowledging her presence, and Santana was careful not to touch her when Quinn did not reach out. She kept her voice low, trying to keep all emotion out of it as she spoke to her.

“So now it never happened, huh?” 

Quinn turned her eyes towards her, arching one eyebrow. “What are you talking about, Santana?”

“Everything,” Santana snapped, her voice raising slightly before she remembered to lower it again, giving a fast glance behind her at the still sleeping Puck. “Everything, Quinn, everything we’ve been through since this whole damn thing. US.”

She swallowed, seeing a shift occur in Quinn’s gaze and unable to fully read it. She pushed herself to say the words that stuck almost painfully in her throat, hating to have to speak them, but knowing she could not keep them back anymore.

“Us, Quinn. What we were, what we are, or what I thought we are. Puck shows up, and all of a sudden, it’s like nothing with us ever happened. None of it. You don’t touch me, you don’t talk to me, you don’t…it’s not the same and you know it. You give me all that talk about how damn much you love me and I’m the one using you, and now you’re the one…”

She cut herself off, shaking her head, tearing her eyes away from Quinn’s. She didn’t want her to see her cheeks reddening with her emotions, or worse, her eyes tearing up. But Quinn was touching her shoulder, with a gentleness that Santana could not recall in days, but there was a hesitation there as well that had not been before.

“Santana. It isn’t like that.”

“Then what is it like?” Santana challenged her. 

She waited, but Quinn didn’t immediately respond. In fact, she cast her eyes aside, not giving her an answer at all. Santana’s stomach twisted harder as she shook her head at her, forcing her voice to remain hard when she continued.

“I get it, Quinn. He’s a guy, I’m not. You thought it was only the two of us, and now it’s not. Now you have a choice. You slept with us both, you probably love us both, in your own way, but he’s the dad of your kid. You’ve always wanted to be normal, and he puts you one step closer than I ever will, in a world that never can be again. I guess I just didn’t figure that when there’s literally no one else to give a shit if you’re so called normal or not, you’d still care so damn much about it.”

“Santana,” Quinn said quietly, and one hand lifted slowly, as though she intended to reach out to touch her. 

But Santana pulled away hurriedly, not wanting to feel even a brush of her skin against hers. She was afraid that it would break in her a way she could not bear to let her see. She kept her body stiff, her face turned so Quinn could only see a piece of her profile, not daring to let her see more.

“No, I get it. It’s whatever, Quinn, it’s who you are and what you want, what the hell can I say?”

“Santana,” Quinn repeated, her voice softer still, but Santana didn’t dare let herself look back at her. Her muscles pulled tightly with her tension, she began to walk back to the bed, unable to look at the slumbering Puck either. 

Tossing a terse “I’m going to sleep” to Quinn over her shoulder, Santana flopped herself onto the bed beside him with unnecessary roughness, not caring if it jostled him awake or pulled half the covers off of him. She rolled onto her side, facing away from both Puck and Quinn, and concentrated fiercely on holding back the sobs pressing with such desperation against her throat, the tears burning in her eyes. A few overflowed despite her efforts, and Santana buried her face in her pillow, determined not to make a sound, to not let either of her companions know, despite the obvious shaking of her shoulders, that she was not quite succeeding at holding herself together.

She figured that Quinn would let her go without comment, simply standing at the doorway to keep watch until it was time for her to wake Santana to take her turn. But instead, Santana felt a dip in the bed, in between the space between her and Puck’s bodies. She tensed again, expecting that Quinn would curl close to him after awakening her, but instead, she felt warm arms encircle her waist, the softness of Quinn’s breasts pressing against her back, and cool lips against her ear, Quinn’s voice almost a breath.

“I can never be normal again, Santana…for so many reasons. And I don’t ever want to try.”

Gentle lips against her neck stopped the sob that threatened to erupt, and as fingertips trailed softly over her arm, then slowly made their way beneath Santana’s shirt, stroking over her stomach, Santana’s eyes remained tightly shut, but her breathing began to ease. Gradually she relaxed back into Quinn’s embrace, letting herself be held as she had so deeply missed and craved, and even as her breathing began to ease and she drifted into sleep, it never registered to her that Quinn was allowing her to skip her turn at watch.

In the morning, they woke to Puck’s knowing smirk, his eyes trailing down the length of their entwined bodies to where Quinn’s hand rested on Santana’s breast, Santana’s leg trapped in between her thighs. He didn’t say anything; he didn’t have to. It simply became the new norm, after, for Quinn to lightly touch the small of Santana’s back, for her to accept and even lean into Santana raking her fingers through her blonde hair. It was normal for them to slump against each other in the backseat of the car, taking naps while Puck drove, or to sit beside each other, fingers entwined, as he stretched out across the back. Nothing was discussed, and yet it was accepted as though it had always been; perhaps, even before the world changed, there had always been a hidden tension that indicated that one day, it would become, and this made it seem more natural than anything else they were encountering.


	14. Strife

Three hours out from Lima, they debated among themselves whether to head out for the closest larger city. It was Puck’s opinion that they should; he figured that there would be more supplies, a higher chance of finding others, and a higher chance of being able to find people who might know medicine, doctoring, or other useful skills they might all potentially need, as well as the equipment they might need for it. Quinn had the opposite opinion; she argued that where there were more people, there would be less supplies, and likely a much larger and more dense population of zombies as well. She worried that their vehicle would be swarmed by a zombie horde or even attempted to be hijacked by a group of desperate humans in need of what they had. It was for the better, she argued, if they stayed in less populated areas, if they avoided the main roads and larger cities, and just tried to get by together, with what they had managed to obtain.

Santana waffled back and forth between agreeing with both sides. To her, both sounded equally possible, and she wasn’t sure if they should ere on the side of caution or on the side of help. Eventually both became so frustrated with her indecisiveness that they were more irritated with her than each other, and they lapsed into huffy silence, broken only by Puck’s snorts of derision and Quinn’s occasional huffs of breath.

Because they had not come to a final decision, they were by default traveling along back roads, as much because it was Quinn’s turn to drive as anything. Because of this, it was a considerable amount of time before they were able to find a gas station Puck could siphon from, and by then, it was growing dark, enough so that they were uneasy with testing their luck and their wakefulness by continuing to drive and look for decent shelter. Loading up the trunk of the car again with needed supplies, including the tampons that Santana needled at Quinn for forgetting earlier, they attempted, much to Santana’s displeasure, to settle themselves to sleep inside the car. 

They couldn’t sleep inside the gas station; there were two dead bodies inside, and Santana and Quinn refused to even look at them for long, let alone sleep on the same floor they had died on. Not to mention the place was wide open for anyone or anything to come inside, and although the car was hardly a inaccessible to harm, it at the least had locking doors. 

Puck, as he had the longest legs, coiled himself into the backseat, while Santana and Quinn attempted to curl up in the reclined front seats. Even with Quinn’s hand in hers, her thumb slowly stroking over her skin, Santana could not seem to relax, and it seemed to her hours before she fell into sleep.

They awoke to banging on the car’s windows, a terrible scraping, scratching noise as sharp nails dragged over its painted exterior, and the girls jolted awake, Puck jerking up, grunting unintelligibly behind them. In silent horror they counted six zombies surrounding the vehicle, two on the left side, one leaned over the hood, one on the right, and two at the back, each seemingly trying to slowly but surely scratch or punch their way inside to reach them. None of them held weapons, and only their dull, blood-crusted hands were being utilized in their effort to get to them, but it was enough for Santana and Quinn to clutch each other’s arms tightly, eyes wide, hearts beating fast and frantic and seeming to jump up into their throats. 

“Get the weapons,” Santana managed after several moments of near paralysis between the three of them, her nails digging into Quinn’s skin. “Hurry up, what are we waiting for?!”

“Are you fucking insane?” was Puck’s less than delicately offered response, his voice rising incredulously. “And just how the hell would be fight when they outnumber us by three, and we’d have to open the doors or windows and by the time we get one foot out they already have three on us, scratching or biting. Get it cranked up, we gotta fucking go!”

Even as he spoke, the zombie that had been leaned over the hood of the car started to slowly pull itself across, mouth slack, inching itself forward so its face drew closer and closer to the windshield. Santana glanced at it, then back at Puck, before something about the zombie struck her, and she looked back at it sharply, her eyes opening wide. Quinn already seemed to have noticed; she wasn’t listening to either Puck or Santana’s disagreement, her eyes fixated on the lifeless face of the creature still dragging itself closer. It was she who was sitting in the driver’s seat, but she couldn’t seem to hear what Puck was saying, let alone respond with any course of action. 

Seeming to realize this, Puck grunted again impatiently, diving forward into the front seat and kicking Santana in the leg in the process of trying to wedge himself up there beside them. Practically sitting on top of Quinn, he snatched up the keys from the cup holder and cranked up the engine, his eyes darting towards the rearview mirror to the zombies still hanging onto the backs and sides of the car. As his eyes shifted forward again, he too momentarily froze, then flinched, his gaze locked for several seconds on the zombie that so captivated Quinn. But then his jaw flexed, his eyes narrowed, and he stomped hard on the gas pedal, jerking the car forward with a screeching of tires. He sped off, heedless of the zombies thrown off of the car, of the one on the hood falling to the side, of the sickening crack as they ran over part of its body with their front tire. He kept up a fast speed as he drove, not pausing to put on a seat belt, adjust his and Quinn’s considerably cramped positioning, or to say a word towards either of the girls.

They were several miles down the road before Santana could gather herself enough to take a slow breath in, reach out to gently extract Quinn from being half trapped under Puck, and pull her over to the passenger seat with her, settling her into her lap with her arms locked tightly around Quinn’s waist. She could feel Quinn’s heart still beating hard against her wrist, her breathing coming too fast, too shallow against her shoulder, and Santana too swallowed before she could bring herself to speak to Puck. Even to herself her voice sounded much smaller than usual, more like a child than a nineteen year old woman.

“Puck…that zombie. The one on the windshield. That was…”

“Sam,” Puck said flatly, his eyes never drifting from the road, but Santana saw his Adam’s apple bob, his knuckles growing white around the steering wheel. “It used to be Sam. But now it’s not. Now it’s a fucking monster.”

He was right, and they both knew it. It wasn’t the first time they had killed what remained of someone they knew and loved, any of them, and more than likely, it wouldn’t be the last. Still, it was almost ten more miles before something resembling a conversation resumed.


	15. De ja vu

It was a day like any other, almost monotonous in the routine they had managed to establish. Drive, with Santana and Quinn lightly bickering over which of her father’s very limited choice of decent CDs they would play, and Puck vetoing every one of them that was mentioned. Scanning their surroundings regularly for any signs of vertical human shaped beings, whether they be living or otherwise. Stopping for gas, food, and other necessary supplies as needed, shacking up in abandoned homes or buildings to rest at night. There had been nearly a week now of this repeated structure to their days, and so far, there seemed little change in circumstances from town to town.

It was enough that Santana was beginning to worry with more intense anxiety than she had even managed to muster up before. It had been what she estimated to be almost two months or so now, since all of this had started, and so far, the only living soul she had come across with Quinn was Puck. How could it be that in this length of time, and over this distance of miles, they had not come across any more living beings? Had it spread throughout the entire state and all the ones surrounding it, through the entire country? What if it had managed to affect the entire world? Was it truly possible that so few people had managed to survive, or were they simply able to camouflage themselves and their survival efforts much more so than they were trying to do?

She knew that Quinn and Puck were feeling it too, though neither really spoke of it. She could see it in the tension in Puck’s shoulders each time he drove, as more and more miles of road and cities and land seemed to yield nothing but emptiness, no matter how many abandoned homes, cars, and bodies they found among the way. She saw it in the leap of hope that came to Quinn’s eyes each time they saw a moving figure in the distance, and the way her eyes would dull again when she realized that it was yet another of the undead. They were glad to have each other, but it seemed incredibly bleak if it were true that the three of them, with all their flaws and inexperience in life, were all that the world had to offer as an example of the hardiest of the species.

And part of what came with this world, stripped of others, of a routine that seemed to change little each day, was that they began to feel more secure. Sure, there were still zombies frequently come across, but the three of them had each other, they had a car and weapons, and there had been enough time in between their last incident of true danger that they began to grow careless. All of them knew well enough that it was unwise to let down their guards, even a little bit, to ever go anywhere alone or to ever have all three go to sleep at the same time. But with little action occurring, they began to grow lax in their own unwritten rules, and it was with these lowered guards that their worst mistake was made.

They were stopping again at a convenience store, filling up on gas, snacks, and toiletries, when it happened. It was their usual procedure that although Puck, weapons drawn, would enter every building first, the girls would back him up, staying right at his heels with weapons drawn, ready to defend him if anything should come out at him and catch him unprepared. But on that particular day, the girls became distracted choosing snacks, and they did not notice, nor did Puck alert them, to the fact that he was heading alone towards the men’s room.

They heard a hoarse shout, its tone carrying intense shock and pain, and Santana and Quinn froze, their heads snapping up. The gunshot came a few moments later, and then everything went eerily silent. 

“What the fuck, what happened, Puck!” Santana shouted, taking a step forward, but Quinn seized her arm, holding her back. Speaking in a hissing undertone, she reminded her, “Santana, you don’t know that it was Puck who shot that, what if there’s someone inside the bathroom with him? Wait!”

She took hold of her own baseball bat, her knuckles white around its base, and kept her shoulder half in front of Santana, as though ready to jump to block her from harm if needed. Even so Santana could see that she was trembling, even with her efforts to maintain a threatening stance, and she didn’t take another step forward.

It must have been no more than a minute or two before Puck returned into their line of vision, but to the girls it seemed nearly an eternity. He was staggering, breathing heavily, and he was holding his arm close to his chest, his free hand letting his rifle dangle, barrel pointed to the floor, at his side. Santana attempted to push past Quinn, a stream of half angry questions on her lips for the scare, but then she saw the blood, slowly trickling from his arm to soak the material of his shirt, and she stopped in her tracks, not daring to take another step closer. Puck’s eyes met hers, and the pain that Santana saw in their surface hit her like a physical blow, because she knew that it had nothing to do with his arm, and everything to do with the knowledge of what his injury must mean.

She could tell that Quinn could see it too, because even from a few feet behind her she heard her sharp intake of breath, could see her out the corner of her eye, shaking her head, trying desperately to deny what she knew to be true. 

“Oh Puck…oh no. No, Puck, no…”

“Oh fuck…no,” Santana shook her head almost in unison with Quinn, though faster, more frantically, wanting as much as the other girl to be able to throw away from her what she was seeing. “No, this is not happening. Fuck…Puckerman, tell me you scratched your arm on something in the bathroom, tell me you dropped your gun and it went off, tell me that’s what fucking happened, tell me-“

But Puck was shaking his head too, much more slowly than either of the girls, grimacing, and they could see that his jaw was shaking, that his eyes were bright with what seemed to be unshed tears. He shook his head again, and when he spoke, his voice was scratchy, defeated, barely audible to Santana above the too loud pounding of her own heart.

“I can’t do that, Santana….I’m sorry. But I got it. I got it…now it’s just…”

He shook his head again as a high pitched moan escaped Quinn, a noise of horror and ill acceptance that wrenched Santana’s heart. But even Quinn was not moving towards him….even Quinn couldn’t bring herself to come close, not under those circumstances. 

He was a doomed man, and they both knew it. The few moments left of Puck’s humanity, of his coherence as the man they had known and loved for so many years, was dwindling fast, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing they could do to preserve it.

“No,” Santana whispered, but she knew. She could feel Quinn’s hands hooking around her arm, maybe trying to keep her from moving forward, maybe simply trying to leech out from her what comfort she could, and still she took one step, as much because she felt she had to as because she had any intended course of action in mind. “No…this isn’t…no.”

“I want you both to leave,” Puck said quietly, his chest rising and falling with shallow, short breaths, his words almost a pant. They could not tell if this was because he was in pain, because he was frightened, or because he was growing closer and closer to the end of his ability to speak and breathe at all. “Get out of here, now. Go.”

“Puck, no,” Quinn’s voice rose, higher in pitch than usual, full of tears that did not fall. “No, we can’t leave you, you shouldn’t be alone when…when you…”

She couldn’t finish, and despite her knowledge that this reasoning was faulty, despite the fact that weeks ago, when it was Brittany, Quinn had not hesitated to do what she felt they had to do, despite Santana’s protests to the contrary, Santana backed her up. It was different now. For all they knew, Puck was the only person left in their world, the only person who ever would be. He had protected them, he had fought for them, he had lived with them every second, by their side, and no matter what danger it brought to them, she could not stand the thought of letting him lose his life alone.

“We’re staying with you, Puck. We’re going to be here, we’re not going to let this happen to you alone-“

“NO!” Puck said forcefully, his words rising to a near shout, and when they both flinched, Quinn’s nails dragging blood from Santana’s skin, he softened his volume, but spoke with no less intensity. “No. No, I won’t let you do that, I won’t let you see. I don’t want you to be here, I don’t want you at risk and I don’t’ ever want you to see me like this.”

“Puck-“ Santana started, but Puck raised the rifle, pointing it directly at her. 

She heard Quinn suck in and then hold her breath, and her own heart seemed to have spread throughout her entire body until all of her skin was pulsing and pounding with its beats. Puck kept the rifle aimed at them with badly shaking arms, and the look of agony contorting his features was worse to see than the tears streaming down his face, the sweat already beading his brow.

“Please, Santana…please, Quinn, please go, please go and don’t come back. I don’t want to hurt you, I don’t’ ever want to hurt you….I don’t want you to see. Please just go…please go, please, I’m fucking begging you, please. Please go, now.”

They couldn’t deny him that, his last request of them. Not when he was wanting it so badly, not when he was shaking and crying and sweating with the anguish of what he knew would happen, of the fear of what might happen, if they didn’t do as he asked. They couldn’t disobey, no matter how terrible and wrong it felt, and so Santana and Quinn turned around, arms tight around each other’s waists, as much to push the other along as for emotional support. They were in the car, Santana behind the wheel, and had started up its engine, forgoing seatbelts in their haste, when they heard the second gunshot. Neither needed to be told what it meant. 

They got maybe three miles down the road, neither speaking a word, only the noise of the car’s engine and their own heightened breaths breaking the heavy silence in between them, before Quinn broke, sobbing with a heavy desperation that scared Santana in its urgency. She doubled over, clutching her stomach as though she were in pain, and perhaps she was. Head bowed to her knees, her shoulder blades shaking furiously with her sobs, Quinn almost wailed, unable to even slightly stem her flow of grief.

Santana couldn’t have ignored her if she wanted to. It was impossible for her to keep driving, for her to continue to on as though this were not happening, as though none of it had happened, when her stomach had bottomed out to her feet the moment she heard Quinn’s first cry. Pulling over at the side of the road, she parked the car and then reached across the console to pull Quinn’s head to her chest, holding her tightly to her. She felt Quinn’s face, hot, soaked, and working against her, her tears seeping stickily to dampen her skin, and she rocked her, her own back beginning to shake with her cries as she too could hold back no longer. It seemed hours that she held Quinn against her, until Quinn could only utter hoarse croaking noises instead of words or cries, until her arms were cramped from the tight, motionless hold she kept on Quinn, until her back ached from bending over her, cradling her to her body. Even when both their tears had stopped she held her, unable to relinquish, until the sky began to grow dark over head once more. Only then could they resume their now aimless driving, at a loss as to where to go and what to do now.


	16. Night time

It happened every night now. It didn’t matter where they were sleeping or one time of night they lay down, or how exhausted they were before closing their eyes. It didn’t matter what they had eaten or drank or what they had talked about the night before, or how much they tried to relax and free their mind of any lingering memories before sleep came. Each night, Santana was jarred awake by the heartbreaking sound of Quinn’s tears, by the shaking of her limbs pressed up against hers, and she knew that neither would ever sleep until she held her, until her murmured, nonsensical words and caressing touch gradually eased her into a numbness she could tolerate. 

Tonight was no different than any other. They had taken refuge in a roadside motel; the sheets were scratchy and worn, the mattress was thin, and the water and electricity, as most other locations, were out, but it was shelter, it was a bed, and neither particularly cared anymore for comfort. Santana had slept for only a few hours when she heard Quinn’s first cries, and as was becoming almost habitual, she rolled over, eyes barely open, and pulled her to her, surrounding her with her arms and muffling her tears against her skin. 

Quinn rarely spoke during these nightly spells, and Santana did not expect her to. It would take so much effort and energy from them both to put into words what they were feeling, the despair of the life that was left to them, of the impact of all the losses they had endured. She didn’t expect Quinn to try, but after nearly ten minutes of holding her through her tears, the blonde surprised her, her voice breaking as she spoke out for the first time.

“Don’t leave me…please, please, don’t leave me. Don’t leave me…don’t ever leave me, please…”

Santana didn’t know if she was speaking of right then in that moment, to not leave her side as she was feeling such intensity of feeling, or if she was speaking of the more abstract future, of not leaving her presence either through escape of some sort or through death. It didn’t seem to matter. Either way, her answer was the same, and she whispered it back to her, holding her even closer against her.

“Never. Never, Quinn. I’m here. I’m here for you, always, until the end of it all, until the end of the world and more. I’m here until there’s nothing and no one left but the two of us, and even then, and beyond. For as long as you want me, as long as you need me, as long as you’re here at all, I’m here. I’m always here.”

She intended to keep her promise. No matter what it took, no matter how much it hurt or how much she had to fight, nothing would make her go back on her word.


	17. Decisions

The next day, it was Quinn, not Santana, who wanted to sit on the roof. It was not as easy as it had been with the school. There were no ceiling panels which could be lifted, no skylights or entrances beyond simply seeking out a ladder in the motel’s utility closet and using it to climb. Although Santana had expressed deep trepidation about the possibility of approaching zombies having the skill or determination to climb up after them, should they see, Quinn had been flatly insistent in a way she had not been since the day of Puck’s death, and Santana had given in, unable to deny her something that she seemed to want so badly.

It was growing cold out, and neither had thought to bring a blanket or even to wear a jacket before making their way up. The roof was not flat, as it had been at the school, and there was just enough space between the upward slope and the ledge for them to perch that Santana was cautious, keeping a tight grip of Quinn’s arm. She had thought that there must be something Quinn wanted to say that for some reason required them to be up higher than usual, or maybe something that she wanted to show her, but for the first several minutes, Quinn didn’t speak at all. She sat there, her arms tightly wrapped around her knees, her chin hovering only a few inches above them, and remained silent, even her breathing inaudible, despite Santana’s efforts to listen to any slight noise she might make to indicate her thoughts. She let Santana huddle close to her, holding onto her arm, pressing her shoulder close, and she gave an occasional shiver despite the warmth of her body against her, but she didn’t speak, and Santana didn’t want to push the fragility of the moment to try to prompt her to tell her what this was all about.

At last she gave a long, shuddering sigh, and Santana could feel it running through Quinn’s spine and up her arms and shoulders before she spoke aloud. Her voice was dry as a deteriorating autumn leaf, and barely above a whisper in volume.

“Santana. If I ask you a question, will you be honest in how you answer? Really, really honest?”

Santana turned her eyes towards her, regarding her closely. She didn’t have any idea what was on Quinn’s mind, nor could she fully read her expression. The other girl’s face was set into a blank look that hid all emotion, and Santana could not tell if this were a deliberate effort on her part, or if it meant that she truly felt no emotion at all.

“Yes,” she told her softly. “Yes, I will.”

Quinn’s eyes never swayed to meet Santana’s. She stared out straight ahead of her, to the slightly darkened skies, gray clouds lining their parameter, and then slowly dropped her eyes down, the fifteen to twenty foot distance from the rooftop to the ground before she spoke again.

“I’m not sure this particular building is tall enough. But if it were….or if we could find another that we could be sure would be…do you think it would be better if we jumped?”

Santana’s expression must have registered her shock and alarm at the question, because a flicker of concern for her, the first real emotion outside of numbness or grief that Santana had seen from her in days, came into her eyes, and she tried again to explain.

“We wouldn’t have to see for ourselves or each other. We would go together, holding hands. We wouldn’t be alone. If we did that, together….would it be better? Would it be right?”

Santana didn’t have to ask her if it was merely an idle curiosity that drove the question, an interest in knowing Santana’s own thoughts. It was more than clear that Quinn truly wanted to know, that Quinn was thinking quite seriously of going through with exactly what she had just voiced. The immediate response that came to Santana’s mind was an adamant no, of course not. What Quinn had just described would be suicide, it would be death, and she could never be okay with her being hurt, with her being taken out of this world for any reason. She opened her mouth to say this, and then as new thoughts came to mind, she slowly let her mouth close.

Because Quinn had asked her to answer honestly. And honestly, even as she began to object, doubts were coming to mind.

What was happening to them, what they endured, every hour of every day, could hardly be called a life at all. They were surviving, and even this was a struggle, if not physically, then mentally and emotionally. They were suffering in every possible meaning of the word that Santana could come up with, and it seemed every day that they had less and less hope of being able to ease it, to make anything like a normal life again. 

It might be a relief, to have an end to their pain, to have an end to the grit and will it took simply to open their eyes in the morning and press on. There might be a chance to once again be able to see her friends, her family, to be in her mother’s arms, to feel Puck’s hand clasp her shoulder and Brittany’s lips on hers. There would be no more fear of losing Quinn, of being alone in the world forever, because she would have Quinn at her side for all eternity. It might be nothing but happiness, nothing but pure bliss to finally have their turmoil taken away and comfort given instead.

Or it might not. There might be no reward, no benefits whatsoever, if there was nothing to expect out of death but a simple end of being entirely. For Santana’s heart and mind to cease existing entirely seemed to her an impossibility; how could it be that she would simply be gone? To never see anyone she had loved, to lose Quinn forever, to have nothing…or worse, to be stuck in even worse torment than her present day, in a hell she had never really believed in but could not totally discount as untrue? What if her choice to bank for an uncertain future would lead to worse circumstances than she knew would come to her in the present?

There was no way she could know for sure, no way she could ever have an informed choice to make. But what Santana was sure of was that to take Quinn’s hand then and to jump would be to give up, to surrender her life rather than to have it forced away from her…and to encourage Quinn to do the same. All Santana’s life, she had been a survivor, a fighter, never giving up on what she felt that she wanted or needed without a battle- even if it turned out that it wasn’t best for her after all. Never had she placidly accepted anything unpleasant that floated her way, and to do so now, to end her life with surrender rather than the strongest fight she could muster, felt so wrong that Santana could only truly have one response for her. 

“I think it would be easier to jump,” she said slowly, sliding her hand down Quinn’s arm and wrapping her fingers around her hand instead. Quinn’s fingers did not yield easily, but she allowed Santana to hold it without protest. “We wouldn’t have to make any other decisions again, and maybe we wouldn’t have to hurt. It would be easy, and I don’t know, maybe it would be better too. But maybe it’s not. I don’t know that it isn’t, but I don’t know that it is either, Quinn. And until I do know for sure, I don’t want there to be any chance at all that I’ll never be with you again.”

She squeezed Quinn’s hand, then lifted it to her lips, giving it a gentle kiss. “I would rather be scared and sad and miserable with you now, then to live without you for eternity without any kind of pain. Because right now, I think not knowing if I could have you would be a pain that’s even worse.”

 

Santana wasn’t sure if what she had said made any logical sense outside of her own head, but Quinn seemed to accept it. She let her head drop forward into a faint nod, then, releasing a heavy sigh, slowly let her head come to rest against Santana’s shoulder, her arms still wrapped around her knees. Santana lifted a hand to her hair, stroking gently, and said nothing. 

“Tell me that we will get through this,” Quinn said finally, her voice just barely raised above a whisper. “Tell me that there is an end. That somewhere out there, there’s others like us, somewhere safe. Somewhere we can finally stop moving and just rest. Somewhere we can stop fighting and crying and hurting and just be. I don’t even care if it’s true or not. Please just say it. Please, I just need you to say it.”

And Santana did. She thought that whether it was true or not, it needed to be said, and she needed to hear it as much as Quinn did.

“I promise this will end,” she told her softly, letting her fingers ease with continued gentleness through Quinn’s slightly greasy hair. “Somehow, in some way, there will be an end.”

It wasn’t exactly what Quinn had asked for, but it was what she knew was true. Somehow, in some way, it would end, and for at least one more night, one more day, they could get through, hoping that the end would be tolerable.


	18. Driving

They were driving, just as they had from the start, just as they had for so many days before, and as they probably would for so many days to come. Quinn behind the wheel, her lips neither smiling nor frowning, her forehead lined, but her eyes clear and present in the moment. Santana beside her, fingers clutched in hers, hair loose and hanging slightly before her eyes, but nevertheless her gaze too was intent and focused ahead. They drove, not speaking, with no destination and only a vague goal in mind, certainly not happy, but neither had they given up, and regardless of their uncertainty, they drove on. They were there, they were together, struggling forth into whatever their future might hold. The two of them together, always. Two, united alone against all that remained of the world, and if that was not an exaggeration, well, they would go down fighting all the same.


End file.
